Shell Of A Man: The Silent Bomber
by NitemareFenix
Summary: Jutah Fate, the Silent Bomber, isn't as cold as you might think. Here, on the way to his next mission, he contemplates who he is and why things turned out the way they have. Rated K for some mentions of death and violence.


**And I'm back again. For those of you curious about this fic, it's based on the little-known and under-appreciated (at least from my experience) PS1 action game Silent Bomber. I don't wish to spoil the plot, but there is a detailed plot summary on Wikipedia, so feel free to look it up if you're confused about anything. This one's a little shorter than most of my other stuff, but I think it worked out pretty well.**

**Chronology wise, this takes place roughly half-way through the game, just after Jutah's trip on the linear liner and before he starts to open up to his comrades.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters/plot points/etc. in this fic. Those honours go to CyberConnect2 and Studio 3.**

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Everyday I awaken from the same nightmare. Seven years have passed and I'm still torturing myself. I try to forget the nightmare by continuing to fight, but.....

Sometimes, it's hard to face myself in the mirror. I keep telling myself that I'm nothing more than a shell of man, nothing more than a killing machine...but I can never make myself truly believe it. It's like there's a part of me that still clings on to the humanity I threw away all those years ago, and no matter what I do I can never convince myself to let go.

I can still remember that day perfectly, and every day I wake up and question myself. Why did I follow my orders even after I knew the truth about what I was doing? Why didn't I question my commander? Why am I still agonising over events that I can't change? I hate myself for what I've done, yet still I continue to destroy and create suffering. Why? Why do I do this? I suppose I believe that continuing like this at least gives some meaning to my life.....but, is that really true?

I've been asked if I take pride in my duty. And every time my answer has been the same: "I've never taken pride in killing or destruction. This is all I've ever trained to do. I didn't know I had any other choice."

Recently though, I've begun to doubt myself. It seems like the answer I give is simply an easy way to avoid admitting that I'm too weak to face up to what I've done. People say that it's never too late to make amends, but even if I started now, I'd never earn redemption for all the suffering I've caused. Even though I'll live far longer than any normal person could ever hope to, I'll never reach the end of the dark tunnel that I started down on that day. Sure, my fingers may just brush the light, but I'll never really reach it. The blood on my hands will never wash off, and I suppose I'm content with that and with the way people see me. Better to be seen as a complete monster than an incomplete human, right? At least this way people will never think to try and offer me sympathy. Such a gesture is wasted on someone like me.

They have a nickname for me, you know? They call me the "Silent Bomber". I never really understood the logic behind it, and when I asked I was told that it was "Silent for my destiny, and Bomber for my survival". Still seems strange. I guess the "Silent" part means I'll never really be surrounded by happiness as the years go by, which makes sense. I can't think of many people that would want to be close to a monster. And the "Bomber" part is pretty self-explanatory. I'll continue down this path until I can no longer walk it or any other.

The iceman that most people see is just a front really. Behind the expressionless mask is someone who's more broken than they'd ever care to admit. Nobody's ever seen the times when I cry myself to sleep because I know I'll have to relive that nightmare again. Nobody really knows that all I really want is some way to atone for everything I've done. All I really want is to be able to look in the mirror and be proud of the fact that I can die with no regrets. But that will never happen, and I'm a fool for thinking otherwise.

The bombs I use are ideal for me, in a way. This way, I can try and escape the torture without anyone ever knowing.

After all, when the air is thick with smoke and the world is dissolving into ash, my anguished screams will sound no different from anyone else's.

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**I think Jutah might seem a little out-of-character here, but I always figured that behind that emotionless front he wears he's torn-up about his life.**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed reading this, and don't forget to leave a review. I can't improve without them.**

**Until next time, then.**


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